Arthur consulted the book which he took from a ledge below the counter. In our time he would have scribbled the sum on a scrap of paper and passed the paper over in silence. But in those days many customers would have been none the wiser for that, for they could not read. So, “One, four, two, and three and six-pence,” he said. “Well, I’ll take it,” the publican announced, gazing straight before him. Arthur understood, but not a muscle of his face betrayed his knowledge. “Brewers’ day?” he said lightly. “Mr. Rodd, draw a cheque for Mr. Brownjohn. One four two, three and six. Better leave five pounds to keep the account open?” “Oh, well!” Mr. Brownjohn was a little taken aback. “Yes, sir, very well.” “One three seven, Rodd, three and six.” And while the customer, laboriously and with a crimsoning face, scrawled his signature on the cheque, Arthur opened a drawer and counted out the amount in Ovington’s notes. “Twenty-seven fives, and two, three, six,” he muttered, pushing it over. “You’ll find that right, I think.” Brownjohn had had his lesson from Wolley, who put up at his house, but he had not learnt it perfectly. He took the notes, and thumbed them over, wetting his thumb as he turned each, and he found the tale correct. “Much obliged, gentlemen,” he muttered, and with a perspiring brow he effected his retreat. Already he doubted—so willingly had his money been paid—if he had been wise. He was glad that he had left the five pounds. But the door had hardly closed on him before Arthur asked the cashier how much gold he had in the cash drawer. “The usual, sir. One hundred and fifty and thirty-two, thirty-three, thirty-four—one hundred and eighty-four.” “Fetch up two hundred more before Mr. Brownjohn comes back,” Arthur said. “Don’t lose time.” Rodd did not like Arthur, but he did silent homage to his sharpness. He hastened to the safe and was back in two minutes with twenty rouleaux of sovereigns. “Shall I break them, sir?” he asked. “Yes, I think so. Ah!” as the door swung open and one of the Welsh brothers entered. It was Mr. Frederick. Arthur nodded. “Good day, Welsh, I was thinking of you. I fancy Clement wants to see you.” “Right—in one moment,” the lawyer replied. “Just put that——” But Arthur saw that he had a cheque to pay in—he banked at Dean’s but had clients’ accounts with them—and he broke in on his business. “Clement,” he said, “here’s Welsh. Just give him your father’s message.” Clement came forward with his father’s invitation—oysters and whist at five on Friday—and his opinion on a glass of ’20 he was laying down? He kept the lawyer in talk for a minute or two, and then, as Arthur had shrewdly calculated, the door opened and Brownjohn slid in. The man’s face was red, and he looked heartily ashamed of himself, but he put down his notes on the counter. He was going to speak when, “In a moment, Brownjohn,” Arthur said. “What is it, Mr. Welsh?”